A Singular Hostage, page 8
No, the facts could not be changed. There was now no hope of Yusuf's carrying out the instructions he had been given. If he survived, Hassan's poor little son would have to be rescued by someone else.
Yusuf skirted a deep rut in the road. All this had happened because, by some ill fortune, Shafi Sahib, the Shaikh's trusted friend, had gone quite mad. Tears stung Yusuf's eyes. How could he face Hassan, his most loved friend, with this news?
Shafi Sahib had begun to speak. Was it to him? Yusuf turned to look behind him.
“Yusuf Sahib.” The old gentleman's tired voice held a teasing note. “Why do you try to do all the work yourself? Do you not remember Allah, the All-Powerful? If it is His will that the child is to be rescued, then no one can keep him at the Citadel. If it is not His will to spare the child, then no power on earth can save him. Is that not so?”
Yusuf nodded numbly. The old man cleared his throat. “In any case, O kind and honest soldier,” he added, smiling serenely, “there is no need to worry. Your prayers have already been answered.”
Atroop of Bengal Lancers trotted past Mariana on the avenue, their black mustaches bristling. Artillery shots boomed in the distance. She slowed her mare, her eyes following the lancers. Her father would enjoy as much as she did all the preparations for this campaign into Afghanistan. She imagined him bent over a map at her writing table, working out the various roles of the British and Sikh forces in the campaign, his gentle face alight as he spoke of the difficulty of moving the heavy British guns over the mountain passes into Afghanistan, and of the likelihood of Afghan resistance to the British-leaning monarch who would replace their present king.
The Governor-General, together with everyone else, was looking forward to the moment when Shah Shuja, their handpicked Afghan prince, would enter Kabul at the head of the triumphant Sikh and British armies, to be installed upon the throne of the most strategically valuable country in Central Asia.
What would be the result, Mariana wondered, of this exciting invasion whose preparations had taken two years? British supremacy in Afghanistan would of course quash forever the Tsar of Russia's ambition to control Central Asia, but surely there would be other changes. Surely there would emerge a new, almost British Afghanistan, withEnglish officers in the streets, and English horse races being held in its faraway cities with wonderful names: Kandahar, Jalalabad, Kabul …
One day, she would see Afghanistan for herself, eat its fabled fruits, breathe its air, and read its poetry.
Ahead of her, a British officer rode toward the red gate. Mariana watched the sentries stiffen to attention as he passed through. If Papa were here, he would understand her passion for languages, as she understood his passion for war. He would appreciate Munshi Sahib.
She nodded to the sentries as she rode through the entrance. It had been days since her last lesson. Was Munshi ill? He had not looked well since the day he had come to her in the rain. She must talk Major Byrne into giving her a second chair. The poor old man should not be made to stand all the way through their lessons.
People had begun to gather in the doorway of the dining tent. She was late once again. It was lunchtime already, and she was still wearing her riding clothes.
A man in a blue uniform stood talking to the White Rabbit. Was it Harry Fitzgerald? Mariana strained to look, leaning awkwardly in the sidesaddle, and saw that it was, just as her mare stumbled, wrenching her from her seat, and knocking her foot from the stirrup. Unable to stop herself, she plunged, headfirst, to the ground.
Someone approached. She sat up, gasping at a sharp pain in her shoulder. Her skirts had now settled modestly about her, but her legs had fiown into the air in front of everyone. She must get away at once. Where was her riding hat?
“It's lucky her foot came out of the stirrup,” said a man's voice. “She might have been dragged. Look at these sharp stones. She may be hurt. Call the doctor.”
“No,” Mariana tried to say over the sound of someone running off.
She forced herself dizzily to her feet, crying out when a hand gripped her injured arm. It was the White Rabbit. He peered at her, his chinless face full of concern. “We must get you to the shade, Miss Givens. Allow me to help you into the dining tent.”
To be gaped at by everyone in camp? Absolutely not. She pulled away, shaking her head. “No, thank you, Lieutenant Sotheby,” she said hastily. “Please help me to remount my horse.”
“But your horse has been taken away, Miss Givens.”
“What?” Mariana looked behind her. It was true. Her mare was gone. “Well then, Lieutenant Sotheby,” she said, holding out her good arm, her teeth clenched in a smile against a sudden desire to weep, “you must walk me to my tent.”
“Of course, Miss Givens,” said the Rabbit, who then pretended, all the way to her tent, not to have seen the tears of mortification she could not hide.
“MEMSAHIB, Memsahib!”
Dittoo's voice pierced Mariana's sleep. She sat up. She was still wearing her riding habit. Her mouth tasted sour. Her head ached from her fall. What time was it?
“The ladies are calling you, Memsahib! They want you to join them outside their tents before dinner.”
Injured or not, she could not refuse. She stood and began to undo her buttons. The last thing she wanted to do was face them all now. Wincing, she pulled her injured arm from its tight sleeve. She could not bear to think what had come into view when her legs had gone over her head.
She pulled her second-best gown from her trunk, and wriggled into it. She had thought of asking Miss Emily to seat her with Fitzgerald at dinner tomorrow or the next day, but would the lieutenant wish to sit beside someone who could not stay on a horse or button her clothes properly?
She paused, her mouth full of hairpins. Of course he had disappeared after her accident. Surely he had not rushed away after seeing her fall. That could not be a good sign in a prospective husband.
“I did not mean to hurt his feelings, poor little Rajah.” Miss Fanny adjusted her shawls as Mariana raced into the square of ground between the residence tents in a fiurry of skirts. “But as none of us can endure the smell—”
“Ah, there you are, Miss Givens.” His jowls wobbling, Lord Auckland rose from a basket chair and towered above Mariana.
“I am sure Mariana will agree with me, Fanny,” Miss Emily said from her own folding chair. “You should not have sent them back.” A corner of her thin mouth turned up. “You do not have a sufficient number of animals in your tent. Two camels would do nicely if your spotted deer should die, although of course, we should need a larger sofa if they wanted to lie down.” It was nearly sunset. Mariana lowered herself into a chair and accepted a glass of sherry as a pair of Miss Fanny's peacocks picked their way past her tent, their iridescent tails dragging behind them.
Miss Fanny bent forward. “Mariana, we heard of your accident this afternoon. Are you hurt? Ah, here is Dr. Drummond, the very person we need.” She nodded as the doctor bowed formally to the little group, his heels together.
The doctor sat down with a groan and put his cane on the ground beside him. “Are you all right now, Miss Givens?” He removed his spectacles and frowned at Mariana. “I tried to see you earlier, but your servant told me you were sleeping.”
“I am quite well, thank you, Doctor.” She refused to think of her sore shoulder.
“That is a great relief.” He nodded several times, then turned. “Well, Miss Emily,” he declared heartily, “no rain today!”
The conversation drifted from the weather to lepidoptera collecting. As soon as the doctor had gone, Mariana decided, she would ask Miss Emily about Fitzgerald. If only the doctor would go away—
“Is that not true, Miss Givens?” The doctor was looking expectantly at her across the dusty space between their chairs. He raised his eyebrows.
What had he said? Was it about butterfiies? “Yes, of course, Doctor,” she agreed, smiling.
“I do not find this a smiling matter.” Miss Fanny's golden eardrops shook gently. “I, for one, am disgusted by the natives. I cannot abide their peculiar habits and their grinning idols. One even hears of human sacrifices….” Her voice trailed off.
What had she agreed to? Mariana sat up. “But I do not believe,” she heard herself say, “that one ought to feel disgust at the natives, unless they are mad or diseased. Of course,” she added, thinking back, “if they are, one might be able to help them.”
Miss Fanny gasped. Dr. Drummond laughed aloud. “My dear young woman, what a preposterous remark!”
As heat rose to Mariana's face, Lord Auckland, who had not appeared to be listening, sat forward in his chair. “Let me give you some advice, Miss Givens.” He spoke slowly and distinctly, as if addressing a half-wit. “As long as you are in this country, you must make every effort to avoid the natives. Do not speak to them unless absolutely necessary. They are an uneducated, heathen people, and must be treated as such.”
“But, my lord, I myself am being educated by a native. Munshi Sahib comes every—”
“Munshi Sahib?” Dr. Drummond made a snorting sound. “Munshi Sahib? You address a native in a manner reserved for Europeans?” He turned to Miss Emily. “Miss Givens, I must say, is a most extraordinary young person.”
Mariana reached out and dropped her sherry glass noisily onto the tray.
“MY dear girl,” Miss Emily said after the doctor had departed, turning a sharp blue eye on Mariana, “I have rarely seen anything as transparent as your temper just now. What did you mean by banging down your sherry glass?”
Mariana's head had begun to throb. She did not answer.
Her sister sniffed. “I cannot imagine what the poor doctor could have done to offend you. He has made a point of studying the natives, and he knows much more about them than we do. You made a silly remark, and he had every right to correct you.”
“I certainly hope you will behave properly at dinner,” said Miss Emily, changing the subject before Mariana could reply. “I have had a request from someone who wishes to be seated beside you tonight.”
Richard Sotheby, of course. Mariana should be grateful. One could do worse than to sit beside a kindly rabbit.
“I am sure you will remember him. He came to dinner ten days ago. He is the younger of two brothers who came out here within a few years of each other. Major Byrne describes him as ‘a promising young horse gunner,’ which I take to mean he is in the Horse Artillery. His name is Fitzgerald.”
Miss Emily picked up her parasol and got out of her chair with a rustling of skirts. “Let us go in. They are all waiting.”
It was only by chance that Mariana had made a real effort to arrange her hair, although, possessing only a small hand glass, she could never tell how she really looked. A few loose curls had already fallen to her shoulders. Oh, please, let her hair, for once, not come out of its pins….
Lieutenant Fitzgerald stepped forward, even handsomer by candlelight than he had been in the rain. His braid and buttons shone; his white doeskin breeches fitted him to perfection. Mariana took the arm he offered her and steadied herself, willing away her increasing dizziness.
Beside her at the table, a spidery stranger bowed elaborately. She inclined her head to him, aware that on her other side, Fitzgerald had pulled his chair so near to hers that their knees touched. She turned from the stranger and opened her mouth to speak, but found herself about to address a blue-clad shoulder.
“Ah, Peter,” Fitzgerald was saying to someone across the table, his animated baritone carrying so far that Miss Fanny caught Miss Emily's eye, “I have been looking for you all day. I shall not let you get away until we have settled our argument.”
The man named Peter, a round-faced man with black curls, smiled broadly. “You are wrong, my boy. The French artillery would never have won the day. The whole battle was decided by our infantry squares against their cavalry. We exhausted them into defeat.”
“Nonsense.” Lieutenant Fitzgerald waved a hand over his soup. “The French had us outgunned nearly three to two. If they had defended their forward guns properly—”
The Battle of Waterloo!
“We should have lost,” Mariana put in, more loudly than she had planned.
Four seats away, his spoon in midair, Dr. Drummond gazed at her as if she were a talking parrot. Miss Emily froze.
Someone nearby clicked his spoon against his teeth. In the silence,
Fitzgerald turned to Mariana. “I beg your pardon?”
“I agree with you.” She nodded seriously. “If the French had resisted the charge of Ponsonby's Union Brigade and saved the seventyfour guns we took early in the battle, we should have lost.”
Fitzgerald lowered his soup spoon.
“Of course Marshall Grouchy's failure to join the battle was also important….” Her voice faded under his stare. Could he tell how much she liked him? What should she do now?
Around them, conversations started up again. Mariana clearly heard her name pass up and down the table. She looked at her plate, feeling her stays bite uncomfortably into her ribs.
Fitzgerald's napkin was at his mouth. He seemed to be choking, but he was not.
She cleared her throat. “My father,” she said, answering a question he had not asked, “is interested in military history. I've read all his books.”
Why was Fitzgerald laughing?
He lowered his napkin. “Forgive me,” he said. “I am glad to have you and your father on my side when it comes to Waterloo. I hope you will forgive my rudeness just now. It's just that we shall all be leaving for Afghanistan soon. I am not myself. I can't seem to think of anything but the army.”
“Oh.” Mariana looked away.
“What an insensitive brute I am!” He leaned toward her. “I should have asked if you are recovered from your fall. I went to fetch the doctor, but when we returned, you had gone to your tent. We came there, but your servant turned us away. Were you injured?”
“Not at all, thank you.” She dropped her eyes. Those running feet had been his, but what had he seen as she fell?
“I also want to say,” he added, “that I was very sorry to abandon you with the elephant the other day. I missed a great opportunity. You could have translated my questions.”
“You like elephants?”
“I like everything in this country, but I have not learned much, except about the army. But I've wanted to ask you, how have you come to be on this journey with us?”
Mariana watched as he buttered a piece of bread. Fitzgerald's hands were square and competent looking. Her other prospects never asked questions. They tried only to impress or please her. “It was my uncle Adrian's idea,” she replied. “We were at Simla, and I had begun learning Urdu and Persian from his old munshi. Lord Auckland and all of you were about to come down from the hills and begin traveling again when the real lady translator fell ill. When we got the news, my uncle dragged me to the political secretary's cottage in the middle of dinner to offer my services. He thought the post would give me a chance to see more of India.”
“The real lady translator?” Fitzgerald gave her a crooked smile. “But whatever did Macnaghten say when you appeared at his door with your dinner napkin still under your chin?”
“He stared as if we were mad, but my uncle Adrian is such a darling, no one can refuse him, so Mr. Macnaghten let us in, then, very stiffiy, as if he were doing my uncle the most enormous favor, he asked me to describe, in Urdu, the scene outside his window, which wasn't exactly fair because it was pitch-dark outside. I said something about the scent of roses under the window and distant mountains, and Mr. Macnaghten gave me the post.” She smiled. “He had no choice, really. There was no lady for a thousand miles who spoke Urdu or Persian or anything.”
Fitzgerald nodded seriously. “You are new to translating, and this is my first campaign. Everything is new, isn't it?” He sighed. “I do not know when I shall be getting my next leave. It might be a long time.”
The table was turning. With an apologetic smile to the bewhiskered general on her left, Miss Emily turned brightly to the sharp-faced general on her right. At the other end of the table, Lord Auckland nodded to Macnaghten, then turned, smiling wearily, to a small, energeticlooking foreigner on his other side. Up and down the table bodies turned in unison. Fresh conversations began.
Harry Fitzgerald's face reddened suddenly as he nodded to Mariana before turning away from her. Suddenly wanting to touch him, she tried to brush against his shoulder, but he was too far away.
“Well, Miss Givens, how great a pleasure it is to sit beside you on this lovely evening.” The Spider's smile revealed several missing teeth.
LATER, as she undressed for bed, the stiffness in Mariana's shoulder made every movement painful, but she did not mind. After dinner Lieutenant Fitzgerald had somehow intercepted the Spider and seen her to her tent. When they reached her door he had bowed politely, then looked hard, not at her face but at her mouth. His eyes had swept the front of her gown, not as they had before when her buttons were crooked, but as if he were looking at what lay beneath the silk of her bodice.
She reached to undo her gown, remembering the delicious feeling that had swept over her at that moment. She would not mind having that feeling again. No, she would not mind at all.
She tugged her gown over her head. “Do not marry the first man who asks you,” Mama had instructed, as the gardener carried Mariana's trunks to the carriage. No one had asked her except seventy-year-old Colonel Davenport in Calcutta, who asked everyone. Until now, Mariana had not cared. Since her arrival, she had been too captivated by India and too concerned about her letters to her father to think seriously of marriage. In spite of a hundred warnings, she had given no thought to her own future happiness.
Time was getting very short. As soon as Lord Auckland and the Maharajah signed the treaty, Fitzgerald would march for Afghanistan, and she would begin the long return journey to Calcutta. When would that be? Had Macnaghten really said three weeks? Three weeks?
